


a sunset and your silhouette

by getmean



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art Student Snafu, Flirting, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 20:09:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15803703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getmean/pseuds/getmean
Summary: The grin hasn’t left his face, and he tips his chin up a little, as if in challenge. “Come to my art show and maybe I’ll show you my studio.”





	a sunset and your silhouette

**Author's Note:**

> for the college and artist au prompts for sledgefu week!

Eugene turns the keys in the ignition again, and lets the engine sputter and struggle to turn over for a minute or so before he gives up. He slumps in his seat, turns his eyes heavenward, roof-of-the-car-ward. “If you start my car I’ll start going back to church.” He mutters, and closes his eyes as he tries the key again. The engine grinds, unhappy, and Eugene rips his keys out of the ignition with a groan.

It’s the third time this week that his engine has mysteriously decided to give up the ghost, stubbornly refusing to turn over until it damn well wanted to. Eugene is at the mercy of his stupid, second hand Acura, which was by and large his father’s fault, as he had passed it on to him like it didn’t have a million things wrong with it. This also meant his complaints fell on deaf ears, like his apparent ‘ungratefulness’ was what was keeping his car from starting.

Just for good measure, Eugene gets out of the car and bangs on the hood. Still, nothing.

“Hey.” Someone calls, voice pitched disinterested like they wouldn’t care if Eugene turned around or not. He does, eyes alighting on a skinny guy dressed in a pair of truly filthy overalls, a cigarette pinched between his fingers that on closer (smell) inspection, was a jay. He’s standing a few feet away, posture relaxed and easy. “If you’re done beatin’ up on that car, you wanna lemme have a look?”

Eugene usually parks his car in the lot behind the art studios, because the trek across campus to the biology labs was kinda worth it if he doesn’t have to fight for a spot to park in. That’s how he rationalises it to himself, anyway. The only hazard of the quiet parking lot meant interacting with art students, who Eugene finds hard to speak to on some fundamental, biological level. Robotically, he nods his head, and the guy wanders over.

“Hold this.” He says, and holds the half smoked joint out to Eugene until he takes it. The guy is a disarming kind of handsome, an attractiveness which you have to look for, but once you see it you can’t _stop_ seeing it. Eugene watches in stunned silence as he pops the hood of the car up, and ducks his dark, curly head down into it all. There’s enough paint speckled and smeared across the thighs of his overalls that Eugene can place him solidly within the art department, but he seems to know his way around the guts of a car with unerring confidence. Eugene would find that hot, if he was having any other kind of day. 

“Listen, man,” The guy drawls from the depths of the car, “I think you just need some starter fluid.”

“Huh?” Eugene says, and then, “Are you sure you know what you’re talking about?”

The guy resurfaces, and Eugene is hit again by a surprised spark of attraction in his stomach. He’s all blunt edges and overlarge features, deep dark rings around heavy lidded, pale eyes. “‘S your lucky day.” He announces, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be right back.”

Eugene is left standing by the open hood of his car, a now-extinguished joint in his hand as he tries to piece together what exactly just happened. It’s not generally how his encounters in the art building parking lot usually go, but it’s not so far different to really matter. 

He’s just beginning to consider abandoning his car and the stranger’s joint all together, when he comes strolling back around the corner, a can of something in his hand.

“You’re lucky,” He continues, like he hadn’t even walked away, “That I’ve gotta soft spot for a damsel in distress.” 

“Damsel?” Eugene repeats, and the guy just laughs before ducking back into the body of the car to fiddle some more. “I ain’t no damsel.”

“Then why am I saving ya?” He asks, and makes a move to back away from the car. “I can stop right now.” There’s a goofy smile spreading across his face, and Eugene can’t help but roll his eyes and mirror it. 

“Please, don’t.” Eugene pleads, hands outstretched. “This car has been fucking with me all week, I can’t take anymore.”

“That’s what I thought.” He said, smile slipping into something sly before he leans in and sprays the canister. Eugene checks out his ass in those overalls because it’s his prerogative, at this point. He’s having a very hard week, after all.

“What’s your name?” He asks, and the guy emerges from the car and lets the hood down with a bang. 

“Snafu.” He says, and extends one oily hand Eugene’s way. After a moment of pure confusion, Eugene remembers that he’s still clutching the guy’s abandoned joint, and passes it over. “You?” He asks, muffled as he attempts to get it lit again.

“Eugene,” He says, and gestures to the car. “So it’s all done?”

Snafu shrugs one shoulder, eyes roving over Eugene’s face as he exhales a cloud of smoke. “If it ain’t working now it’s beyond whatever I can do right here.” He shakes the can he’s holding, the corner of his mouth twisting up again. “You’re lucky I had this on me, even if you doubted me.”

Eugene ducks his head, and laughs. “C’mon, you can’t blame me for not thinkin’ you’d know your way around a car.” When he glances back up at Snafu, he’s still watching him, that lazy little smirk still on his face. 

“I do metalwork sculptures.” He says, and winks. “Loot scrap cars enough that I know my way around them pretty good. Plus, my dad owned a garage, I grew up on cars.”

The less dignified part of Eugene’s brain starts hatching a plan at how best he can get those clever hands on him as soon as the words are out of Snafu’s mouth. It’s an internal struggle which his better half doesn’t win, and ends in him blurting, “Can I see your work sometime?”

Snafu’s smile blooms into a shiteating, knowing grin. Eugene feels himself wilting preemptively with embarrassment under it, which is what he gets and what he deserves for being goddamn thirsty. 

Then Snafu says, “Sure.” The grin hasn’t left his face, and he tips his chin up a little, as if in challenge. “Come to my art show and maybe I’ll show you my studio.”

The thought of it is heady; he hadn’t in his wildest dreams imagined his day improving like this. In the time it takes for them to exchange numbers, Eugene goes through a full _Ghost_ inspired montage in his head, in which he plays Patrick Swayze’s titular ghost, of course.

He texts Snafu later: _’the car works!’_ , just to make sure he wasn’t fucking with him and had given him the wrong number. Snafu replies a couple hours later, just as Eugene is easing into his late night homework routine. The monosyllabic thumbs up emoji is barely anything to swoon over, but it keeps Eugene in a good enough mood that he’s almost _glad_ his piece of shit car had decided to flip out on him today. 

\------

The art show is downtown, in some old brick warehouse that looked mere blocks from being gentrified by some beer swilling Brooklynite. Exposed pipes, whitewashed concrete floors, the whole nine yards. Unsurprisingly, the space is full of the same sort of people, leaving Eugene in that strange liminal place of being both over- and underdressed. He tugs on the hem of the sweatshirt he and Sid had spent hours agonising over, wishing he’d gone for something a little more... _out there_.

Caught up still in his poor fashion choices for the evening, Eugene’s midway through wondering how Snafu has attracted this sort of crowd when he encounters a bored-looking man perched on top of a stool, tucked in near the doorway of the building.

“‘S five bucks, buddy.” He says, eyes on a fixed point about a foot over Eugene’s head. He pulls up short.

“Huh?”

“Entry.” The guy says, and thrusts what looks like the gallery’s monthly programme at him. “Five bucks.”

Eugene pays, because he’s made it this far and it’s not the worst thing he’s done to see a guy he’s into. He’s pretty sure Snafu didn’t just _forget_ to tell him it was money on the door, but it gives him another important insight into who exactly Snafu is. Short answer, he’s probably an ass. Long answer? Eugene was here to learn just that.

The gallery is a long, low room lit by what Eugene hoped were at least semi-flattering strip lights. He’s feeling more and more out of place the longer he stands around pretending to understand what the closest piece of twisted metal is meant to mean, with no trace of Snafu in sight. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, blinking at his bulbous reflection in a large, chrome shield shaped object as he tries to work out how to make himself look a little less _dorky_.

“I like ‘em rolled up.” Comes a familiar voice behind him, and when Eugene turns, Snafu is there: wearing a ratty pair of coveralls, a glass of wine in his hand. The apples of his cheeks are pink, as is the tip of his nose. “Hey, Acura. Didn’t think you’d come.”

“If it ain’t the man of the hour.” Eugene deadpans, and then, “I didn’t think I’d have to pay to speak to you again.”

He doesn’t feel overdressed anymore, and when Snafu falls into step with him, Eugene feels himself loosen up exponentially. Snafu is grinning, eyes bright when he turns them on Eugene. “Gotta fund my lifestyle somehow.” He counters, and there’s something amused and lively in his face that wasn’t there a few days ago. The middle of his full, pouty mouth is stained dark red from the wine, and Eugene wants nothing more than to press his thumb to it, to find out how easily Snafu would yield under him. “So what do you think?” He asks.

Eugene flounders for a second, mind still caught on the mental image he had conjured himself. “You- Oh, the sculptures!” Mentally, he rights himself, and puts a hand over his face as Snafu laughs at him. “I like them!” He cries, grinning against his palm as he slid his hand down to peek at Snafu, who was watching him with something close to fondness in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m nervous.” He admitted, “I really like your sculptures, I dunno how you even made them.”

Snafu extended his free hand between them; bony, broad hands, covered in shiny patches of new skin and cuts in various degrees of healing. “Blood and sweat.” He murmurs, like it’s a secret just for him and Eugene. Then he grabs a glass of wine off a nearby table and hands it to Eugene, then drains his and swaps it for an empty one. “For the nerves.” He says, and knocks his glass against Eugene’s with a smirk. “Don’t be nervous. Everyone here’s an ass. Sycophant, whatever.” He waves his hand. “Drink that and we’ll do a bump, it’ll take the edge off.”

“A bump…?” Eugene begins, but then Snafu is swept into a discussion about a certain piece, and the idea is abandoned. Eugene watches Snafu talking, the lazy tilt of his smile, the way he speaks with his hands. He’s such a curious little guy that Eugene can’t take his eyes off of him, and he supposes that is the effect Snafu has and wields to the best of his ability.

“I just sold something.” Snafu murmurs into his ear, maybe an hour later. Three glasses of wine down the hatch to make Eugene a little less awkward. “An’ it’s tacky to talk money but,” He slings his arm around Eugene’s shoulders; touchy drunk by this point. “I ain’t got none.” He snorts, loud in Eugene’s ear, and his arm tightens around his shoulders.

“Am I your date?” Eugene asks him, and Snafu turns those huge, pale eyes on him, so close to his face he can see the freckles across the bridge of his nose.

“Do you wanna be?” He asks.

\------

They ride the train together, three stops. Shoulder to shoulder, rocking along with the movement of the carriage as they speed through the bowels of the city. Snafu kisses him there, cold hand to his cold cheek, sweet and chaste. 

It had started raining while they were on the subway, and there’s something joyful bubbling up in Eugene’s chest as they splash through puddles black with the sky and neon like an oil slick. Snafu’s coverall is dark with water as they huddle under the narrow shelter of his porch as he fumbles with his keys, hands cold and wet. Eugene takes them from him, and once they’re inside he’s tugging on the zip of Snafu’s clothes before the elevator doors even begin to close.

“Can’t believe you wore this to your gallery opening.” He murmurs, frustrated with the old, sticky zip. “Who _are_ you?” He breathes, and gives up, fetching up against the mirrored wall of the elevator. Snafu is watching him, pinning him in place with that gaze, laser-like in the low, flickering lighting. 

“My place is a tip.” Is all he says, and Eugene follows him down the dirty, narrow little hall to his apartment as though in a trance.

The place is controlled chaos. Caught somewhere between an apartment and a studio, with little to tell where one starts and the other begins. Snafu steps through it all sure footedly, flicking on a few table lamps as he goes. The overall ends up draped over a chair, and Eugene watches him pad around his apartment in a tank and boxers like he’s witnessing something secret.

“Hey,” Snafu calls, lit from the front by the harsh white light of the open fridge door. “Take a seat anywhere.”

It’s hard to choose. The apartment is open plan, with nothing to delineate space from space. Everything seems to be an amalgamation of what makes a home; like some sort of Frankenstein’s monster. Between the shadowy entity that is Snafu’s bed, and the kitchenette at the other side of the room, the space is a jumble of half finished sculptures, stacked up canvases, and a large, mud brown couch that straddles the halfway point of the apartment. 

Eugene chooses the couch over the dining table chairs, mismatched and predominantly used as clothes hangers, it seemed. He sinks into the cushions, listening to Snafu moving around in the kitchen, the opening and closing of cabinets, as he eyes up the mess on the coffee table in front of him.

It’s difficult to begin to form some sort of image of Snafu from the things he has in his home. He’s a magpie, a hoarder, and it shows not only in the metal he’s appropriated for his sculptures but in the smaller things too. There’s a deck of Chinese playing cards strewn across the coffee table, obviously a game interrupted, next to a rather wilted ivy protruding from a pot fashioned from a mannequin’s head. The stack of books threatening to topple next to the arm of the sofa range from Stine to Steinbeck to Stein. _Goosebumps_ , _Grapes of Wrath_ , and _Q.E.D_. All topped off with an overflowing ashtray in the shape of a pair of breasts. 

“You wanna take me up on the coke?” Snafu asks, and Eugene jumps, almost upsetting the precarious pile of books he was poking at. He’s holding two drinks, and Eugene takes the one he’s offered as his brain works through what he was just offered.

“I’m good.” He says, slow, and Snafu shrugs as he sits down heavily next to Eugene, drink slopping a little on his bare leg.

“Suit yourself.” He murmurs, but doesn’t do anything more than produce a pack of cigarettes from the side table, and light himself one.

The night feels like it’s settling into something quiet, something chill. Snafu had put on some music while Eugene was noseying through his things, something mellow and blue that gets Eugene’s eyelids feeling heavy. Snafu, he realises, is a heavy drinker.

He kisses him, tastes the whiskey that they’ve switched to heavy on his tongue. American Honey. Snafu is sweet under him, pliant and eager as Eugene presses him down into the sofa, pulls Snafu’s leg up over his hip so he grind the hard line of his dick against-

“Oh,” Snafu murmurs, “I completely forgot to tell ya.”

They break apart, and Snafu plucks his still-smoking cigarette from the ashtray and finishes it, slow and languid. Eugene is watching his face for _something_ , anything, but all Snafu seems is drunk, and rather blasé about it all.

“What,” He says, after a long stretch of silence. His eyes find Eugene’s in the gloom. “Is it a problem?”

“No.” Eugene says, immediately. “No, I don’t care that you’re trans.”

“Cool.” Snafu comments, and Eugene props himself up over him, watches his face for a long moment before kissing him again.

“I don’t even know you.” He murmurs, his hands sliding up Snafu’s sides as he inches lower down the sofa, settling in between his legs. “Tell me about yourself.” He murmurs, pushing up the thin material of Snafu’s stretched out wifebeater as he presssd a kiss to his bare sternum. “Please.”

“What, this is more than a one time thing?” Snafu asks, arching his back as Eugene lines kisses from his belly button to just below his ribcage.

“Do you want it to be?” Eugene asks, and when Snafu laughs he can feel it buzz under his lips. 

“I’m from Louisiana.” Snafu murmurs, after a long stretch of time in which the only noises were their breathing, the creaking of the couch, and that slow, blue music. Eugene mouths it out against his skin, against the black tattoo on Snafu’s stomach that he can’t make out because his face is too close. _Lou-Weez-Si-Ahna_. “And I ain’t been back since my mama died.”

“I’m from Alabama.” Eugene offers, and Snafu laughs again.

“I know.” He waits a beat, and then his hand slides along Eugene’s back, plucking at his sweater. “Hey, take this off.”

Eugene complies, moving so he’s kneeling between Snafu’s thighs as he tugs it over his head, adding it to the mess on the ground. His head feels heavy, his stomach dipping with arousal at every word from Snafu, every expression he makes. The alcohol in his system means he isn’t the uncomfortable, anxious wreck from earlier, so his mouth is moving before he can even register the words he’s saying. “Can I fuck you?” He hopes he doesn’t sound as desperate to Snafu as he does to himself.

Snafu grins, that same slow smile from the parking lot, from the gallery. “I thought you weren’t ever gonna ask.” He murmurs, and wiggles a little under Eugene as he hooks his thumbs in his boxer shorts. “Don’t touch my tits.”

They don’t even relocate to their bed, too desperate to get into what had been building since Snafu had shown Eugene his poor, hurt hands. Snafu rides him, those hands pressed to Eugene’s chest as he grinds down on Eugene’s dick, closer and closer until they’re chest to chest, Eugene’s face pressed into Snafu’s wild, sweaty curls. He can feel how wet Snafu is, can _hear_ it, and it only makes him clutch at him closer, fuck him harder. 

Afterwards, they lie together in a sweaty heap and Snafu declares, “Y’know, for once, I’m actually tired.” He tucks his face down against Eugene’s neck. “We should move to my bed.”

“We shoulda fucked there.” Eugene says, hands tracing patterns up and down Snafu’s back as he tries to keep himself awake. “I’ve got class tomorrow. Oh shit.”

“I don’t fuck just anyone in my _bed_.” Snafu murmurs, ignoring Eugene. He heaves himself up with a grunt, and makes a noise. “You really had to cum in me, huh?”

“You _asked_ me to.” Eugene counters, and tips his chin up so that Snafu can tap his cheek, a mock slap. “Next time, fuck me in your bed.”

“I’ll think about it.” Snafu says, climbing off of Eugene as he made a beeline for what was presumably the bathroom. Eugene felt like he was sinking into the sofa cushions, the alcohol and an orgasm weighing heavy in his bones.

“Hey,” Eugene called, “You think your art show went well?”

He hears the rush of taps, silence, the toilet flushing. “Sure.” Snafu says, switching off lamps on his way back to the oasis that is the sofa. “I sold somethin’, so that’s pretty nice.” He gives Eugene a hand up from the sofa, surprisingly strong despite his small frame. “Had some decent arm candy, even nicer.” 

The smile he shoots at Eugene is mock-leery, and he crumbles into laughter as soon as Eugene rolls his eyes.

“I shoulda known.” He lamented, and Snafu just snorted, slapped him on the ass to get him moving.

“C’mon, I’m ‘bout to knock out.”

Snafu’s bed is soft, softer than it looks, and Eugene feels like he’s sinking down, down, past the hardwood floors and beyond. Snafu tucks up next to his side, which Eugene pretends to not be surprised by; he hadn’t pegged Snafu as a cuddler. Sleep comes easy after the wine and the whiskey and the sex, and Eugene falls asleep to the feeling of Snafu combing his hair gently through his fingers.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading :~)


End file.
